The Book
by meniscus
Summary: A younger Snape is semi abducted by Dumbledore, gets stoned, and struggles with hate, jealousy, and honour. Moral ambiguity and great dialogue ensue! Last chapter! Please r
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: Characters are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling

Author's note: This story takes place when Snape is much younger; he is already involved with the Death Eaters, but something has happened to make him have serious second thoughts about this involvement. Truth be told, as the author, I don't know what the incident was, but I do know that it was something that affected Snape in a very personal way, though it probably wouldn't have hurt his standing as a Death Eater if he hadn't shortly thereafter chosen to disappear with loads of potentially dangerous information. Anywho, I think that's all the context you need to know, I hope you enjoy this story – thanks for reading, and please review :0)

Severus was hiding on the train. Through the window he could see fragments of landscape and architecture flitting by in deep dusk. Besides this there was an ugly hole in the clouds that cast a sickly yellow light over the edges of things in an unsettling manner. Because of its dismal glow, the murky silhouettes of the evening appeared especially dreary: it was a bit like being trapped in one of Goya's black paintings. Severus looked away from the window and down at his book. He tried to read but the sentences kept winding and twisting out of his comprehension; syllables coiled and stretched like the segmented bodies of centipedes, forcing him to read the same words over and over again. The book slid out of his hands and onto his lap, he set it down somewhere nearby. He was so bored and so tired. His body longed for sleep. It clawed at him for rest, threatened him with waves of terrible heat, followed by moments of unbelievable cold; moments when all the hot tap water in the world could not relieve the frozen ache in his stiff fingers.

Just now he was having one such cold spell. Having slept six hours in the last 72, his instincts warned him that he was on shaky ground for now his eyes were closed. Thus, he was much more likely to fall asleep, and if he fell asleep, he would be vulnerable. Even with the cover of the muggle transportation system, he was still vulnerable. Severus willed himself to open his eyes. The sickly hole in the sky remained, though it has become more ragged and ceased to give off any significant light. He didn't want to see anymore; he shut his eyes and surrendered to sleep, slumping where he sat as it smashed into him like a wave-wall.

Upon waking from what had been a nauseated slumber, Severus was colder than before and his head ached immensely. He groaned groggily and began to rub his forehead in various places to east the pain. Someone was sitting beside him and reading his book. Slowly, through a series of thick, crumpled thoughts, Severus approached the realization that this person was Albus Dumbledore. _What! _Severus's heart began to pound heavily in his chest with frightening speed. He was caught. He was found. He could hardly breathe. Red and black blotches swarmed over his vision; he was about to faint. While attempting to look outwardly calm, Severus doubled over until his head was about level with his ankles. _Don't panic – There's my untied bootlace – There's a hardened wad of gum on the floor – You'll be all right. Don't panic. Don't panic. _Gradually the blotches subsided and Severus sat up normally. The most desirable course of action, he decided, was to ignore Dumbledore's presence for as long as possible.

To the surprise of Severus, Dumbledore did not try to start a conversation. Instead he sat and read quietly, seemingly oblivious. Taking in the elegant cut of Dumbledore's muggle coat, which looked very expensive and very warm, Severus glowered inwardly, telling himself that although Dumbledore's skill with pushing people into situations of his own design probably accounted for a great deal of his success, there was something brutally predatory about cornering a sleep-deprived man on the run and taking his only book. _This self-righteous bastard is not getting anything from me_, Severus thought bracingly. He considered his options: Dumbledore had come to make some kind of deal with him, to take advantage of his desperate situation; Dumbledore was there to give him some condescending advice about the merits of turning himself in since Dumbledore seemed to get off on such conversations; or perhaps Dumbledore was there to kill him because the sixth and seventh year averages had gone down ten percent at Hogwarts, largely due to the Death Eater drug trafficking he had recently pioneered. Severus didn't want to cut a deal and he didn't want to turn himself in. He wanted to be safe. He was sick and bored of hiding, but it was the only way he knew how to hold on to any measure of safety. He longed to fall asleep knowing it wouldn't end in disaster, and to stop having to feel like a wounded animal trailing blood every time he threw away a ticket stub, but to feel safe it had to be on his own terms; relying on others for protection these days was a sure way to die young. The train slowed to a halt. _Here it comes_, thought Severus, and he steeled himself against the expected assault.

"Thank-you, Mr. Snape, for allowing me to read your book even after you woke up from your nap. It was a good read and I appreciate your unsolicited courtesy," said Dumbledore politely. He handed Severus the book and walked away. Severus sat holding it, running his fingers up and down the spine for a moment in agitation as he realized Dumbledore wasn't going to say anything more to him. He suddenly felt helplessly disappointed. A numb misery crept into his marrow. He wasn't safe. He couldn't make himself safe by ignoring Dumbledore.

As he rushed off the train he wondered if it was a trap. Dressing up like Dumbledore and snatching a fellow's book wasn't difficult, and was always likely to provoke some kind of reaction. Yet if it was a Death Eater in disguise, why had he been left alive? What if he had dreamed the whole encounter? Something dark jumped at him from the corner of his eye and he twitched away, only to discover that whatever it was—real or imagined—it had disappeared. Severus wasn't thinking straight; his head reeled painfully and his heart started to heave again.

Then he spotted the retreating figure of Dumbledore and without a second thought, ran towards him. When he was close enough, he managed to catch Dumbledore's attention; the old man's eyes lit up a little upon recognizing Severus. "I didn't think you were going to get off at this station, Mr. Snape," he said pleasantly.

"Sir, please, I'm sure you've probably heard about the ugly business I fell into a few months ago…"

Dumbledore nodded, "I have in fact heard some interesting things. What can I do for you?"

"Do for me?" Severus was taken aback. "You were the one who sought me out – Snuck up on me while I was sleeping, and took my only book. What can I do for _you_? What are you playing at? What do you want from me?"

For a moment Dumbledore said nothing but peered at Severus with a pitying expression, then he said, very gently, "Severus, I don't want anything from you."

Severus hesitated, failed to reply; could not reply. He suddenly felt too repulsive and pathetic to make eye contact. Instead he looked at the ground, hardly daring to believe what was being offered to him. He wanted to say something but all the words he tried to conjure died in his throat. Then Dumbledore shrugged and broke their silence, saying, "very well, if that's all, Mr. Snape, I'll be on my way".

"Wait."

"Yes, Severus?"

"Oh Christ, you don't know how hard this is going to be for me to say."


	2. Chapter 2

Disclaimer: Characters are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling

Author's note: First, I have to acknowledge James Herriot, who although I don't allude to at all, provided me with the inspiration for Dumbledore's country house. Second, this is not meant to be a conclusive piece; there is a third part in the works that hopefully should tie up some loose ends. Thanks for reading, and please review :0)

Severus woke up to the sound of rain splattering against the window beside his bed. Groggy and disoriented, for a moment he thought he was back in his old London flat, then the details of the room swam into his consciousness and he remembered the long dark, dark drive from the station with Dumbledore to the lonely little country house he was in now. He remembered begging for help. Looking over at the mechanical alarm clock, he saw it was already late afternoon. Despite his reluctance to leave the warmth of the bed and its piled quilts, a paranoid need to find out about the house drove him to put on his clothes and exit the room. Just outside the door was a note from Dumbledore telling Severus to amuse himself for the day, and that he shouldn't leave the house or there'd be all kinds of hell to pay. Severus tossed the note aside and went into the kitchen, where, he discovered a tearing, gut-growling hunger in his stomach as he looked at all the different kinds of food laid out there. Before long he polished off half a loaf of raisin bread with four different kinds of jam, accompanied by eight cups of tea. After this feast he felt more cheerful than he had in months, and decided to celebrate the sanctuary he had stumbled upon -- after all, he could find himself in Azkaban within the next twenty-four hours.

So, Severus rolled himself a joint and smoked it on a Persian rug in the middle of a room that seemed to serve as the house's library and office. Aside from the rug, the room contained an old-looking desk and chair by a bay window, two floor lamps, several filing cabinets, and many, many books in shelves that lined the walls. Judging from the softness and pleasant smell, the rug probably wasn't a real antique, but it had a wonderful pattern on it that made Severus feel as though he were looking down on miles and miles of rust-coloured mountains, capped with ice palaces, bounded by sand-stone towers and walls, which harbored lush rose gardens between their peaks. Somewhere he had heard that the tradition of white face-paint in Asia began when an explorer went to Europe and returned with tales of ladies whose faces were pale as driven snow. Severus thought of Hamlet's Ophelia, and ran his hand over a Sanskrit phrase, shaped like a tongue of fire, red as blood.

The house was very quiet; his bed upstairs had long gone cold, and he felt a bit uneasy as he imagined it left rumpled and abandoned, each crease and wrinkle put there by the movements of his own body, blind and dreaming, alone in an empty house in the middle of no where. Who had last slept in that bed, and where were they sleeping now, he wondered as goose-bumps spread down his arms.

Severus sat up and became aware of the sound of rain. Drop after drop, hurtling down a dizzying distance, thousands of them, striking the roof in a dark rhythm, like the numbing drone of a crowd in casual conversation, like the babbling of Ophelia's river rushing downstream. He flinched involuntarily.

A distraction was wanted. Was needed. Severus got up and forced himself to read the titles of the books on the shelves. To prevent the words from mindlessly rolling over his eyes, he pronounced them out loud to internalize each of them. Sweet syllables filled up his mouth; these thoughts written by others curbed his loneliness and bounded his mind's wandering. He calmed down and reminded himself that in a matter of hours Dumbledore would return. He fell into the comforting order of the titles and their words.

Then he came across a black book with nothing printed on the spine. Instead of skipping to the next title, he took it off the shelf and opened it. Inside, the pages were covered in Dumbledore's hand-writing and between some of the pages were newspaper clippings dated from the mid-thirties -- photographs of Chamberlain and Hitler; of the Minister of Magic and Grindelwald in conference. There were articles on appeasement from the Daily Prophet with approving comments scribbled on them, also in Dumbledore's hand. A sick, sliding sensation over-came Severus as he skimmed over the book, which had entries ranging from early 1934 to mid 1940. Here, Severus found himself confronted with a man entirely different from the one he had been acquainted with at school; this was not the righteous champion who defeated Grindelwald in an epic battle in 1945. Instead, Severus saw a frightened idealist, scrambling against his own instincts to justify peace even after Anschluss had occurred.

Severus read on, almost pitying this younger Dumbledore who was so changed from the Headmaster he had grown up knowing. Then, shortly before the Munich Crisis would have begun, many pages were ripped out; the next entry was August, 1939, and Dumbledore's tone was now steely and understated. He made bitter jokes about the Nazi-Soviet pact and complained at length about the French for no apparent reason. Whatever disappointments over Munich festered in the missing pages, they had left a miserable human being, seething helplessly at the state of the world around him, a character Severus found altogether quite sympathetic. The last date in the book was June twenty-second, 1940, and it simply said: _France is gone. You idiots_.

Pulling himself off the floor, Severus felt oddly inspired as he walked on sore knees over to the window. He heaved the thing open on its Edwardian hinges and breathed in the dark, heady scent of the rain, its cold rhythms no longer scared him.


	3. Chapter 3

Disclaimer: Characters are the intellectual property of J.K. Rowling

Author's note: This is the last part of the fic, although I've been toying with an epilogue because Snape and Dumbledore are so much fun to bounce off each other. Thanks so much for reading, and please review :0)

That row of icicles along the gutter

Feels like my armory of hate;

And you, you … you, you utter . . . .

You wait!

--_Beyond Words_, Robert Frost

The next morning Severus found he had fallen asleep in his clothes, and that an unusual lightness filled him. He glanced at the clock and saw that it was still early. Nestled beside him in the bed was his book, warm and quiet as a sleeping cat. He set his hand briefly on the cover for a moment. Something told him Dumbledore had returned. Severus slid out of bed and went into the washroom, where he drank a large quantity of cold water directly from the faucet, and shaved with a razor whose owner was unknown to him. Then he went downstairs and called out "hello?" to the air, sunbeams, and dust motes in between.

"Hello, I'm in the office," said Dumbledore's voice, muffled from distance. Severus went to the room he'd spent most of the previous night in, and knocked on the door. "Come in," came the cheerful reply. Severus took a deep gulp of air into his lungs and pushed the door open.

"I'm here, Sir."

"Please take a seat, Mr. Snape," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a chair. As Severus sat, he felt a pang of nervousness rush through his body.

"Yesterday, I went to London to discuss your case with the Ministry. I have convinced them that you may be more useful to them outside of Azkaban, and I intend to pursue this line further on your behalf, but first I have to ensure that we are on the same page – which as I'm certain you're aware, will require you to share some information with me now."

"Of course. What do you want to know?"

Dumbledore pulled on his beard for a moment, then he asked, "What did you do last night to occupy yourself?" Severus tensed; was this some kind of trick question? He wondered if Dumbledore knew that he had been high, of if he'd some how found out about the journal.

"I smoked and read, mostly."

"Ah, one of my books?"

Severus could feel himself start to blush, which was odd, because he was normally an excellent liar. "For a while, Sir," he said faintly. Dumbledore gave him a perplexed look.

"What exactly did you read, Mr. Snape?"

Severus opened his mouth and shut it. Then he decided to put everything on the table. He walked over the book-shelf and retrieved the book. He placed it in Dumbledore's hands and sat down on the floor beside the chair he'd been in previously. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't put it down once I knew what it was – I had no idea you used to be like that, Sir," he said, quietly bracing himself for the worst.

Then Dumbledore laughed. "Oh, it's all right, Severus. The fact that the wizard who defeated Grindelwald clung to appeasement until long after it was fashionable is one of history's open secrets. Not what I'd call my finest hour, but people were all too happy to forget about it once I helped win the war in such a sensational manner." He paused and looked at amusedly at Severus, "I think there must be a lesson for you somewhere in that, eh?"

"Indeed, Sir…" Severus hesitated, unsure of the appropriateness of his next comment.

"Hmm?"

"Well, to speak candidly, I actually respect you more for it, as I now have a slightly better idea of how you became the shining emblem of goodness and humanity that you presently are."

Dumbledore smiled wryly and looked up at the ceiling. "Isn't funny that I more or less had to embrace war to achieve that standing?" He tugged on his beard again and peered at Severus over his spectacles, "what do you make of that, Mr. Snape?" he asked airily.

"I don't see anything wrong, or paradoxical about it, personally. But then, my moral compass likely leaves much to be desired."

"Oh, speaking of your moral compass, Mr. Snape, I know this is a terribly routine question, but why did you leave the Death Eaters?"

Severus shifted in his seat. He had expected this question, but he was surprised by how badly he wanted to answer it. "The decision wasn't a complicated thing, Sir," he began, "a close friend of mine was hurt in a fight that broke out with some Aurors. We managed to get him into a muggle hospital through a contact, but he died that night. I stayed with him for hours, in this little curtained room, piled with machines that were supposed to keep him alive when we, with all our fancy magic, couldn't. He was hooked up to all these wires and tubes, lying there with his mouth half open. It wasn't anything like it looks in the media – you could feel in the very air of them room that he couldn't be woken; it made him look unbearably fragile. I was in there for five hours, afraid – and I was too afraid to touch him more than once on the arm.

"I'm told he died within the hour of my leaving. After that, well, Sir, I was rattled."

"Understandably; please continue."

"I started to realize that I didn't want to go out that way: Alone, in some dismal canvas box, under a false name, and with nothing to recommend me except a momentary show of regret from a few psychopaths. From there, it wasn't long before I wished I hadn't done some of the things I had done, and one day that list of things included becoming a Death Eater.

"I tried to ignore it for a while because I was good at moving drugs, and that gave me the respect of some powerful people, but the fact was that their high opinion of me meant little when at the core of my life, I was consumed by a fear of getting blown to pieces doing something I had grown to be ashamed of. Drug trafficking…" he paused and made an impatient movement with his hand, as if words could not illustrate his distaste for the industry. "I wanted a better existence. There was something else, too, the last straw, you might say, perhaps the result of some idiotic personality quirk, but insufferable to me nonetheless: As you know, Sir, I happened to be present when a prophecy was made at the Hog's Head Inn, and, naturally I made sure it was relayed back to my master as it appeared to concern Him."

"Only to be expected, Mr. Snape."

"Right, but now He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is convinced that the child in question belongs to James Potter. I don't like Potter. I don't like _thinking_ about Potter –it agitates me," he paused and picked at a stain on his sleeve. "I don't like thinking Potter is special, nor do I believe any son of his is likely to be special, regardless of whatever wiser and more talented people than myself are insisting," he nodded curtly in Dumbledore's direction, "but in any case, the matter is further complicated because I am in his debt. Horribly and eternally, I owe James my life. Therefore, the thought of seeing him pointlessly martyred leaves me—uneasy."

Dumbledore raised an eye-brow skeptically, "uneasy?"

Severus sighed and waved an exasperated arm in no particular direction, "More than uneasy. I hate the idea: James is _not_ special, and even if the prophecy does refer to his son, that fff—man saved my life. If the Dark Lord kills James, and He will, it shall be on _my_ head because I gave Him the information, and if—or when this happens, not only will James die smug, knowing that some poor, mislead people out there are going to think he's a hero, but _I_ am going to feel like a filthy, dishonourable git for God knows how long."

"Hypothetically you would be responsible for an aspect of James' death, yes, but at the moment he and his family are hidden well."

"I hope so," replied Severus in a low voice, and his thoughts were a poisonous jumble of memories centering on James. Oppressive heat expanded in his chest as he thought of that—of Potter and his idiotic—that idiotic night when they—and how they reduced him to—so now he was forced to—A sudden sting of jealousy and loathing pierced Severus as keenly and vividly as arousal. Unnerved by the emotion's physicality he looked around the room for some calming distraction.

"Thoughts, Mr. Snape?"

"Oh, sorry, nothing really. Anyway, soon after all that I left, and went into hiding – the rest you probably know."

"Enough, anyway. Thank-you, Severus. Now, I'm curious, how did you envision yourself helping the ministry?"

"Probably spilling all the out-dated information I possess, going to Azkaban for a while, and trying to find some kind of a job when I get out," he shrugged.

"Is that what you want?"

"What do you think? No, Sir, it's not what I want, but I made a mistake and I know I have to pay for it."

"Well, Severus, the ministry is not interested in your – as you so aptly put it—out-dated information. They are however, considering an alternative to Azkaban for you: You are to resume your old post in the Death Eaters if you can, and report back to the ministry. If you do well, you most likely can avoid going to Azkaban altogether. How does sound, Mr. Snape?"

Severus bit his lip. The irony was not lost on him: He had gone to such troubles to get away from the Death Eaters, and now the ministry wanted him to go back and continue his drug-peddling. He ran a disappointed hand across his forehead. "How long do you think they'd put me in Azkaban?" Dumbledore frowned at him, surprised at the question.

"I don't know, exactly, but much longer than you'd want to be there, I can promise," he replied sternly. Severus shot him a defiant look. Dumbledore continued, "I would avoid that place if I were you and was given the opportunity, Mr. Snape. It may be hard to imagine the fear, the dark, the misery, and the loneliness there, here in this pleasant house, on this pleasant morning, but, Severus, I cannot stress to you enough that our prison system is lamentably barbaric: It was never designed to redeem people, it was meant to destroy criminals. Do you understand?"

Severus nodded mutely. He sat motionless on the floor, staring at some spot, trying to collect himself. "They'll kill me on sight," he muttered at last.

"Our sources say that you're more missed by Voldemort than you may know: If you returned with the right account of yourself, you would probably be all right."

"But I don't want to go back to them. I went to such lengths to distance myself," Severus replied in a barely audible monotone.

"I know," said Dumbledore kindly, "but Severus, your choices have consequences that you have to live with. I was the last person who wanted to go to war in the thirties; myself and much of Britain were desperate to avoid a repeat of the Great War. As you know, we made all sorts of ridiculous concessions in the name of peace. Now, were our attempts at avoidance successful? No, of course not. We had to face our demons.

"So Severus, I implore you to be wiser than I was: take responsibility for your life. Please don't do yourself an injustice and crawl into some wretched hole in Azkaban because you are afraid to deal with the consequences of your actions."

After these words, the room became very quiet for a time as Severus sat in thought. "All right then," he sighed suddenly. "All right then, what now, Headmaster?" he asked, and his voice was determined.


End file.
